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Civil Wars I

Old Ha made his own ice lollies:
Orange and juicy, tuppence each.
Two massive sucks and they were gone;
he always kept them out of reach.

The roads were made from different stuff back then.
Oozing tar would puddle up and bubble
for bare feet and fingers to leave prints in,
and tarry digits always meant trouble.

A brand new school was being built,
Jones's mill was about to fold,
the last of the steam trains were gone
and peace was just eighteen years old.

Broadwood road had an old ford car on bricks.
Douglas Road just one red mini on wheels.
Peter Styvesant cigarettes were cool,
and you could eat milky ways between meals.

New Persil nineteen sixty two
had nothing on Omo or Daz
and Mentadent and Steradent,
kept our teeth looking less than flash.

Local wars were civil enough,
breaking out like a sudden spark
that flared, and died away as fast
at school, at home, or in the park.

It wasn't a park though, in sixty three.
The Martins lived on it in a tin hut.
There was a bank in the middle of it
and a patch of grass that the locals cut.

It doubled as the "football ground"
with a pavilion minus walls
and windows, and no roof or door.
From time to time there were no balls,

but when there was, football was a hard game;
blowners then were as heavy as a head -
ev'ry high ball a life or death affair -
just one header and it was straight to bed.

Us wee boys built our bonfire there,
right in the middle of the pitch,
and all the wood we gathered up
the big boys burned before the fifth.

The old school in the woods would soon be closed;
seven classes, one teacher; it was tough,
ducking wooden dusters and blocks of chalk.
She taught us all she could, even the duff

pupils amongst us learned more than enough
for the simpler lives that old world allowed.
Wilson's "white heat" would soon be turning up,
but we were still miles from the madding crowd.


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